


The Last Act of Love

by icandrawamoth



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode V: Empire Strikes Back, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Corpses, Crying, Fusion of Star Wars Legends and Disney Canon, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Loss, M/M, Men Crying, Mention of Panic Attack, Multi, Polyamory, Post-Battle of Hoth, Rogue Squadron, Tissue Warning, canon continuity with some legends characters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-05
Updated: 2019-02-28
Packaged: 2019-03-27 06:19:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13874946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icandrawamoth/pseuds/icandrawamoth
Summary: For over two years it's been the four of them, Wedge, Hobbie, Wes, and Tycho together as a unit, the most perfect thing they've ever known, a source of love and comfort and solidity in even the darkest times. But now Hobbie has been ripped away, and nothing can be the same.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, guys, I'm gonna give posting a WIP as I go a shot. Chapters will probably be fairly short, and I'm not sure how many there'll be, though I do have a pretty good idea of what the arc is gonna be. Let's see how it goes.
> 
> _"Grief is the last act of love we can give to those we loved. Where there is deep grief, there was great love."_

Wedge has never had a panic attack, but he thinks this must be what it feels like - the sensation that he just can't quite catch up to what's going on around him, the way he feels a little bit detached and yet like all these terrible, dark emotions are going to rise up and swallow him whole at any moment.

Can it really be only yesterday that the Empire's probe droid landed on Hoth? Wedge is dragging like he hasn't slept in days. First there was the panic over Luke's disappearance, the long night followed by frantic morning patrols. Then the invasion, the adrenaline and exhilaration and grief of a battle much more lost than won. The Rogues had lost so many, and yet, as much as he feels every single death, Wedge's heart beats painfully with one name over and over.

Hobbie.

Hobbie, who he'd known longer than anyone else in this Rebellion, Hobbie who he loved. And who Wes and Tycho loved. For over two years it's been the four of them, together as a unit, the most perfect thing Wedge has ever known, a source of love and comfort and solidity in even the darkest times. But now... A very part of them, of him, has been ripped away, and they haven't even had the chance to grieve together.

Wedge can still feel so clearly the utter blankness that had gripped him when he saw Rogue Four impact against the head of the lead AT-AT walker, heard Wes's strangled yelp of Hobbie's name from behind him followed by Tycho's shaky demand across the comm to know what had happened. "He's gone," had been the numb words to fall from Wedge's own lips, but there hadn't been time for grief then. They'd had to pack it away, continue the fight, the evacuation. Objectively more important things, as painful as the fact was.

And even after they'd reached the rendezvous point, fighters in a cluster in the landing bay of the Mon Cal ship _Liberty_ , they're barely had time for a quick, overwhelmed three-way hug before Wedge was being dragged into an emergency meeting with those present from High Command. There he'd found out that Luke hadn't shown up yet, that Leia and Han and several other critical Rebel leaders were also missing. And that his own responsibilities had increased tenfold.

He stumbles out of that meeting as soon as he's released, falling into the nearest empty chair he can find, exhausted and overwhelmed, his face hidden in his hands. He doesn't know this ship. He doesn't know where his lovers are. He just wants to crawl into bed and hold them and cry and then sleep until everything else goes away...

“Wedge.” He bites back a relieved sob at the familiar voice, leaning into the arm that comes around him before he finally raises his eyes. Tycho looks awful, his blonde hair in disarray, the orange flight suit he still wears creased – not to mention the look on his face Wedge can barely bring himself to focus on. It has to be the same as his.

“Wes?” Wedge asks.

“Sleeping. Someone sent an aide to show us to the pilots' quarters. You've got a private room.” There's the barest hint of a question there. As if small talk will take away the massive bantha in the room.

Wedge stares at his hands. “They've put me in command of the squadron until Luke comes back.” That hadn't been exactly how they phrased it of course, but Wedge refuses to consider any other eventuality.

Tycho nods. “A few Corona Squadron stragglers showed up while you were gone, but none of ours.”

“I didn't want this,” Wedge murmurs, and his voice trembles just a little. It's true. He never sought command for himself, though when the opportunity presented itself, he'd enjoyed sharing it with Luke. Rogue Squadron is their project, and it's been such a pride and joy to watch it grow, but he never wanted it like this.

“I know. You'll do great, though, I'm sure.” Tycho squeezes his arm.

Wedge can only nod, exhaustion pulling at him again, hard. “Take me to-” he starts, then pauses with a sigh. No. As much as he wants Tycho to take him straight to their quarters, he can't just hide now. He has a squadron to run, to take care of. “Are the Rogues somewhere?”

“A bunch of squadrons have already found the rec room.”

Of course. There'll be jet juice flowing, battle stories told, pilots and soldiers dealing with loss the only way they know how. “Please take me there.”

Tycho stands wordlessly, offering him a hand, and Wedge squeezes it, beating back the urge to ask if he's okay as they walk down the hall. Of course he's not okay. He's in every bit as much pain as Wedge; he's just better at hiding it. And, still, Wes is out there somewhere in the massive ship. What if he wakes up alone? Wedge swears to be quick with the squadron. None of them should be alone right now.

The rec room, when they step inside, is painfully boisterous. Glasses are being passed around – Wedge and Tycho refusing the ones pressed on them – and someone has even turned on a music player. Most of the Rogues are present, and Wedge makes a mental note of which aren't to contact later as he gathers them in a relatively quiet corner for a word.

He tells them about his promotion, that no one knows where Luke is, though he hasn't been confirmed lost. Reiterates those they know are. Offers what reassurance he can. Accepts muted congratulations. Encourages them to get some rest and be ready for whatever Command needs from them in the coming days.

He faces a round of sympathetic looks, too, that he does his best to weather. It would be impossible to be anywhere near the Rogues without knowing what he and Tycho and Wes and Hobbie were to each other, but it's clear no one knows what to say. It's a blessing in a way – he wouldn't know how to respond to any sort of sympathy, is barely holding himself together as it is.

Finally, it's done, he's done what a responsible squadron leader should in this situation, and he turns to Tycho who once again leads him from the room. The corridors of the ship are long and silent, strangely empty for the sudden influx of people, and Wedge shivers. Then they're stopping at a door, Tycho murmuring the lock code he's already programmed, and they step inside.

The light is on, Wes huddled small where he sleeps in the middle of the bed in his vest and shorts, pillow wet-dark under his cheek.

“I didn't want to leave him,” Tycho says, voice low and rough, “but I had to find you.”

“Thank you.” Wedge reaches for his hand, feels it tremble in his grip, hears Tycho's breath hitch as grief once again crawls up his own throat, and then Wes opens his eyes.

He looks between the two of them, exhaustion and confusion in his gaze, and when he speaks Wedge doesn't know if he's still half asleep or in denial or shock, but the words that come out of his mouth are, “When is Hobbie coming?”

It explodes the floodgates, and all Wedge can do is lurch forward and pull him into a desperate embrace, Tycho bedside him and wrapped around them both a second later. It's the first chance they've gotten to be alone together in private, and everything comes out all at once, three sobbing, trembling bodies trying desperately to find comfort in simple closeness. The next minutes see the pillowcase soaking in even more tears as their grief rises and flows together, each hurting more than they knew was possible. When the dark, empty sleep of exhaustion finally takes them, it's a welcome relief.


	2. Chapter 2

Wedge has long since lost any issue he might have had sharing a bed with several other people, but years as a soldier called to duty at all hours mean when he does wake, he wakes fast. He shudders to consciousness the next morning sore all over from the awkward position he'd fallen asleep in, face sticky with dried tears. He doesn't know if he's thankful or bitter that he awakes with the full memory of what happened yesterday, no half-second of blissful ignorance before it filtered back it.

It only takes a moment to realize it was Tycho detaching himself from where he'd been wrapped around Wedge's back that woke him. Wes still sleeps in his own arms. Wedge cranes his neck to give the Alderaanian a questioning look.

“Couldn't sleep,” he explains, then swallows in a way that sounds painful, throat rough with spent grief. He leans back in for a second, brushes a hand over Wedge's hair and a kiss to his cheek. “I'll go find us something to eat.”

Wedge nods wordlessly and settles in again as Tycho leaves. He's anything but hungry, but he knows they need to eat, to keep their strength up for the battles ahead. For long moments, he watches Wes, who looks tired even in sleep, eye sockets dark caverns in his pale face. As if he can sense Wedge looking, he stirs, blinks awake to look up at him, a half-smile finding his lips before Wedge sees him have that moment, the crushing return of reality as he sucks in a sharp breath.

“He's really gone,” Wes whimpers, hiding his face in Wedge's chest. “I thought, maybe-”

“I know.” Wedge holds him close, runs gentle fingers across his back and into his hair.

“Where's Tycho?”

“Getting breakfast.”

“I'm not hungry.”

“Me either, but we still need to eat. There'll be lots of work to do today, and we'll need to be ready for it.”

Wes shudders and huddles even closer to him. “I don't know if I can even get out of bed.”

“You can. There are still people here who need us.” Wedge drops a kiss to his forehead just as the door opens again. “Come on.” He sits up, pulling Wes with him, and the two of them turn to Tycho who greets them with a twisted expression that reaches for even the tiniest smile but doesn't make it.

“Morning,” he says softly, and Wes throws off the blanket and crosses to fold his arms around him. A pile of ration packs in one arm, Tycho can only half-hug him back, but he does so with feeling, and Wedge watches them stand together for a long moment before parting.

There's a little table in one corner of the room, and Tycho and Wes sit at the two chairs while Wedge positions himself on the closest corner of the bed and holds out his hand. Tycho hands him a ration pack, then Wes, sets one on the table in front of himself – but there's still one left in his hand.

Wedge blinks, has just enough time to realize what's happened, to hear Wes murmur a soft “ _oh_ ” before Tycho, still staring at the food in his hand, says numbly, “I guess I didn't think. I just automatically...” The ration pack hits the table with a _smack_ as Tycho's hands cover his face and he chokes out a sob.

Then Wes is crying too, silent tears rolling down his face, and for long moments Wedge can't even do that, the grief and loss filling him up so completely he can barely breathe as he watches the two men he loves more than anything hurt so much and is powerless to help. Desperate to do _something_ , he lays a hand on each of them, fingers gripping Tycho's shoulder, skimming Wes's cheek, as he does the best he can to hold himself together. One of them has to function, he tells himself sternly. He's their lover, but he's also their commander now, and in either respect or both, one of them has to be in control of himself, and he'll take that burden.

After awhile the spell passes, they silently wipe their eyes and open their food, picking at the bland rations listlessly. Wedge is sure they don't taste any more of them than he does. The room is still and heavy, none of them speaking as they dutifully clear their food.

“I should check in with Command and see what they need for us to do,” Wedge says when they've finally finished. “Do you two want to get our things from the ships and bring them here in the meantime?”

They agree, and the three of them straighten themselves up as much as they can before leaving the room. Wedge accompanies them to the hanger to grab a change of clothes and his datapad from his X-wing's storage compartment before parting with a last embrace.

After he's changed, he finds he's already been sent directions to the office he'll be using while the Rogues are stationed on the _Liberty_. Though the ship is large, it isn't infinite; he'll be sharing with the commanders and executive officers of Corona and Green Squadrons. There's a note there, too, saying he'll need to submit his pick for his own XO, but he ignores it. Luke is coming back, he maintains. Though he'll do the very best he can until then, Wedge will back in that second-in-command position himself soon enough.

He finds the office easily enough, and the other men and women already there greet him politely, asking about him and his squadron. He answers their questions vaguely and in brief; he knows they don't really want to hear the one thing that truly fills his mind. He seats himself at the desk he's been assigned and activates the computer terminal there, forcing his mind to empty of everything but work as he scrolls through the already backlogged messages. He needs to make reports of what equipment and personnel he can confirm as being present. There are requisitions to be written up to replace what's been lost. Pilot applications to be looked over so he can get the Rogues to full strength again.

He makes himself take a deep breath, to not let himself be overwhelmed by the amount of work that stares him in the face. It's a relief, honestly, once he thinks to look at it that way. A task list, fairly easily prioritized, things he knows how to do, useful, effective, _important_ things that can keep him distracted from other lines of thought he'd rather not go down.

The first thing is easy enough: contact the Rogues he didn't speak to last night. That done, he moves on to the next thing: passing down orders to his people. Command has assignment them to help take inventory of a couple of the transports they helped evacuate, and he sends the relevant information to everyone. Part of him hates that he's not down there with them, working side by side with his people, but he knows he has responsibilities here now. He tucks his comlink away and turns to the next item.

The distraction of datawork is only effective for so long before his mind starts wandering, gut aching as he tallies Rogue Squadron's losses. As much as the absence of Hobbie, the screaming void left behind by his presence, is the most painful for Wedge and his partners, he was far from the only one. They left others behind on Hoth, too: Raltar, Senesca, Valent, Pomoner, Kabir, Mullawny, Hune, Lenso, Pugillo... The list of the dead seems endless. Wedge rubs suddenly-burning eyes.

“All right, Antilles?” It's the voice of Corona Leader, an older woman who had introduced herself only as the Contessa.

“Counting my losses,” he tells her because he can't come up with anything other than honestly.

A hand lands on his shoulder. “Never gets any easier,” she says in a tone he's already gathering is more gentle than the one she normally uses. “Especially when you're in charge. But they wouldn't have given you the job if they didn't think you could handle it.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.” Wedge forces his hands to steady and finishes typing out the list. He'll need to write condolence letters. There'll need to be some kind of memorial service planned. The thoughts are heavy ones.

The hand pats his shoulder once more and disappears, another little bit of solidity gone just as soon as it arrived.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Rogues return to Hoth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was written for February Ficlet Challenge 2019 day twenty-four prompt "death and/or rebirth." You'll never guess which applies to this fic. ;)

Wedge keeps his face dry while writing the first batch of condolence letters by sheer force of will, and only then by virtue of starting with those Rogue pilots he was the least close to. Even so, every time he feels tears threatening, he has to blink rapidly to keep them away. He has a job to do, he insists roughly to himself. He has to keep his emotions at bay until it's done.

It helps to stop once in a while and listen to the soft keystrokes of the other four squadron officers in the room. They all suffered losses at Hoth, too, and they're all still here, still working. Wedge can only do the same.

At one point, he gets a comm message from Wes and Tycho saying they're headed to the mess for lunch and would he like to join them. Wedge waffles for a moment, then gives them his apologies. As much as he wants to see them, he's not hungry anyway, and if he stays here, he can get more done and have less of a daunting pile waiting for him tomorrow.

He's finished five letters and sent Command a preliminary report on his lost pilots when the office begins to empty out. Soon, it's just he and the Contessa, and the woman pauses at the door to ask, “You staying here all night?”

“No,” Wedge answers, making himself shut down the terminal. He'd gotten into the groove of it, and now he doesn't really want to leave his tasks unfinished.

“You can't hide everything in work,” the Contessa cautions. “Go spend some time with your people, Commander.” Then she's gone.

Wedge has to admit she's right. He sighs as he stands up and stretches sore muscles before going to find his pilots.

Wes and Tycho in a corner of the rec room, listlessly playing cards with a wingpair from Corona Squadron. He greets them with a pair of light kisses before settling between them.

“We missed you at lunch,” Wes says, laying down a card. “The food here is even worse than back on the base.”

“There's a lot of work to be done,” Wedge answers. He peers at Tycho's cards as he deliberates what to play.

“I imagine,” the blond agrees. He chooses a card – not a good one. His heart clearly isn't in the game.

One of the Corona pilots grins as he takes the hand and sweeps the pot – mostly made up of ration bars and placeholder items – towards himself. “Deal you in?” he asks Wedge.

Wedge shrugs and accepts the offer. “How was your day?” he asks his partners.

“Long,” Wes says. “I usually like doing inventory, but...”

“You have other things on your mind,” Tycho soothes.

“Yeah,” Wes agrees softly.

Wedge finds his hand under the table and squeezes it gently. “Me, too.”

The other Corona pilot wins this round, and then he and his wingmate wander off, the distracted trio not enough of a challenge for them. A few Rogues approach, and they play another couple of hands. Wedge tries to smile and offer solidity for his pilots, but it's hard.

“Should we go back to the room?” Tycho asks quietly when their new challengers, too, move on.

“I am tired,” Wes admits. He's been learning heavier and heavier against Wedge as the evening drew on.

So they go. A dinner of cold rations, then they change and climb into bed together. Wedge notices now, a little more aware of his surroundings than last night, the way they lay. He in the middle, Wes to one side and Tycho to the other. An empty space on the bed yawns behind Wes. Hobbie's spot. It's how they had come to always arrange themselves.

Wes huddles closer to Wedge, probably trying to make up for the heat and comfort of their lost partner behind him. Tycho reaches over Wedge to lay a hand on him.

Wedge squeezes his eyes closed, not knowing what to say. This is so wrong. It was never supposed to be just the three of them. They knew the odds, of course they did, especially with four of them in this relationship, that someday they might lose someone, but...how can you ever be ready for that?

Tycho hides his face in Wedge's neck, and Wedge thinks he can feel the dampness of silent tears there. None of them says anything. They knew they're all thinking the same thing.

 

Two long days later, Wedge receives Rogue Squadron's first post-Hoth assignment, and it chills him to his very bone. The remains of their squadron will be joining up with the Coronas and Greens and a group of commandos to return to Hoth and retrieve any survivors and salvageable equipment they can find.

They'll confirm Hobbie's fate, once and for all. That's what Wedge keeps thinking in no uncertain terms, and he can see the same realization reflected in his partners' eyes. They'll do the work they've been assigned, of course, but none of them is leaving that planet without having found Hobbie's crashed snowspeeder and seeing to him.

Hours later, as Wedge sets his X-wing down in the same place he'd taken off from only days before, he's already shivering, and not from cold. Even before leaving Hobbie here, he'd never wanted to come back to this place.

The dozen pilots that have been assigned to this area circle up, then head out in their assigned directions. Wes and Tycho silently follow Wedge toward the ice fields where Hobbie's ship had gone down. They all know what they're really looking for.

It takes long minutes of walking, and even in his extra-thick clothing, Wedge can feel the cold seeping in, familiar and unwelcome. Around them is the aftermath of battle. The collapsed hulks of AT-ATs the Imperial forces weren't able to salvage. Rebel transports that had been shot down and fallen from the shy. And, dotted here and there, the crashed and burned remains of snowspeeders.

Wedge swallows hard as they pass the first one. Empty, both its pilot and gunner having escaped. They won't all be like that.

The next is burned out, impossible to tell what or who might remain inside. The pilots keep moving.

Wedge's blood feels like it's freezing in his veins. Up ahead is the demolished AT-AT Hobbie steered his ship into when it was shot down. At the monster's feet is the crumpled Rogue Four itself.

“Let me,” Wedge murmurs across the comm channel, lifting his legs higher as he tries to move faster through the snow. This is his responsibility, to be the person to look first, to confirm everything. He know what he'll find, but he we won't _know_ until that moment.

He reaches the fighter, legs aching from even that much extra exertion, and doesn't give himself time to catch his breath. He knows it won't help. The cockpit canopy is open, everything dusted with snow. Wedge moves closer. He can already tell that the gunner's seat is empty; Kesin Ommis is back on the _Liberty_ recovering after having punched out of the ship before it went down.

The snowy shape in the pilot's seat tells a different story. Wedge forces himself to kneel on the snowdrift caused when the fighter plummeted into the ground and reaches out a shaking hand. He slowly brushes aside snow and uncovers the sleeve of a bright orange Alliance flight suit. A moment later, a helmet, ice caking the visor, and Wedge has to squeeze his eyes closed before he scrapes it off.

He opens them to Hobbie's frozen face.

Wedge hadn't thought it could hurt any more, but here, looking at incontrovertible proof, Hobbie's cold, broken body right at his fingertips, it feels like his heart is physically withering in his chest.

The others must hear his sob over the comm, because a second later, there's a muffled “ _no_ ” from Wes before he's suddenly at Wedge's side. He drops to his knees, broken noises of his own grating on Wedge's ears, and Wedge does the only thing he can think of and reaches to squeeze his hand, grip clumsy between their bulky gloves.

“I'm sorry,” Wedge whispers as if the words will actually do anything. The grief had started to settle as a sort of constant ache, but suddenly the pain is so sharp and fresh he can barely suck in breaths.

“I prayed it wasn't true,” Wes whimpers, all but collapsing against Wedge.

Then Tycho is there, too, one hand on both of them as he says with voice barely steady, “We're going to bring him back. We're going to take good care of him. We owe him that.”

 

It takes nearly an hour to remove Hobbie's body from the accumulated ice and snow and the mangled ship. Tycho carries him as gently as he can toward the transport, Wedge and Hobbie following quietly. Tears freeze on Wedge's face, and he's sure the others have them, too.

“It's real,” Wes keeps breathing raggedly every few minutes. “He's really gone.”

“He's really gone,” Wedge echoes numbly.

Tycho doesn't say anything, and Wedge can't imagine how heavy Hobbie's body is in his arms.

 

They do find a few survivors who had successfully hidden away from the Imperials, but there are many more bodies. Too many for the two transports that came on this mission, meaning there will need to be another trip. Some equipment has been salved too, more lined up for the next wave. Part of Wedge feels good about that.

Still, he's absolutely exhausted as he drags himself back to his X-wing and prepares to take off. He just wants to stop. He wants to sit with his partners and hold Hobbie's hand, be with him one last time before they have to say goodbye forever. He knows he'll get that chance, but it's still so many hours away.

As he watches stars bleed into the blur of hyperspace, he can't stop picturing Hobbie's face behind the frozen helmet, the man he loved now alone among a pile of bodies.


End file.
